A/N: This story is a prequel to the Reclusive Slytherin(RS). I will be trying to update both stories at about the same time. This story is mostly written to make a little bit more sense for all you readers on why Harry is the way he is in RS. At first I was just going to make it a small side-story but when I started writing it, it unfolded and became longer than I had thought it would.
It has actually been close to 10 years since I read the Harry Potter books, so I apologize if you feel that the characters are OOC. My view of Harry is that he is rather damaged and because of that he will be rather awkward when interacting with people.
This is a time-travel fic and will go back into the past to Grindewald's war. I also, don't particularly like writing romance so there will most likely not be any slash in this story.
Read & Review.
Enjoy!
The Curse
For Harry Potter it never went away. The feeling of having failed, of not being good enough and of needing to try harder. Even after defeating Voldemort, a part of him still believes he is not quite worth it. This constant anxiety gnawed at him; ate him from the inside out and filled him with self-loathing. Hermione called it "survivor guilt". A muggle term, and one Harry did not agree with. After all he did not really remember his parents' death, just his mother's scream and green light. And he felt he knew better than to believe the people having been killed in the battle against Voldemort was in somehow his fault.
Yet, when he had learned the truth of what happened that fateful night at Godric's Hollow, the truth had not given him a semblance of comfort, but had left him feeling purposeful, useful, needed. All the things he had never been as part of the Dursley family. It had awoken a part in his young self that felt destined and strong and ready to set the world straight.
And Dumbledore, who Harry had looked up to so much and seen as the bringer of his salvation, had set him on a path for that redemption. A path to prove to himself and his parents that his life was worth it. He walked Dumbledore's predestined path with glory blinded eyes and humbled smugness. Though he was certain, his younger self would have never seen it as that. Never would have seen himself as being above people, but rather below them. However, age taught him to see it differently. Made him look at his younger self with sad eyes and pained memories, but most of all, it made him hate the man who had pointed him the way with gentle eyes and kind words. Who ushered him forward with words of valor. That the darkness that had descended upon the wizarding world of Britain could be conquered with his love. That Harry's heart was somehow stronger and purer and would lead them all to salvation.
Young, foolish Harry had eaten up the praises and had walked, so willingly, time and time again to death's door. All for the man who had shown him that his harsh life had a purpose. A meaning. And death never came, so his purpose grew. The Boy Who Lived was no longer just a legend but a role he played himself into more and more. Yet, hidden behind the mask of his resolve was lost and guilt-ridden Harry. Who strived and cried for words of comfort and acceptance; strived for love, friendship and one single word of understanding. Who wished for people to call him Harry and not The Boy Who Lived or The Fated One, and Dumbledore had known that, had used it. And in the end, abused it.
If only he had seen or realized sooner; maybe his path could have been different.
The world had crashed down upon him the weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts. The mask Dumbledore and he had perfected together, the hero, was crumbling. There were no more lies he could tell himself, no more confident smiles he could bring upon his face. So, he stood before the press as just Harry. Insecure and lonely. Taking in their judging eyes as they burdened the 17-year-old him with questions he was unable to answer. So uncaring of his mental health or physical health. Right off the war he was still aching and weak and wishing for his lost ones back. But no one cared. After all, the world had spent 17 years eating up the lie that was The Boy Who Lived.
"Why didn't you save him?"
"Why did you let He Who Must Not be Named into Hogwarts?"
"Why weren't you there when they needed you the most?"
He listened and digested and stared down at his shaking hands and asked himself, why wasn't he good enough? Had he not fulfilled his purpose? Killed the man everyone believed was immortal. Yet, his wandering gaze was met with scorn and disdain; even fear, but never gratitude. There would be no more praise, he understood that. The man that used to care was dead and a great deal of his friends, too, and still he lived.
He was cold and blank, and the smile he forced on his face twitched and wavered like water. No one said anything about it and as far as he could tell, no one even noticed.
Harry did not remember what he had said that day to the press, only that afterwards he had gone home and locked the door, turned off the floo and warded against owls. Grimmauld Place was gaping and empty. Kreacher was gone. Dobby was gone. Hedwig was gone. His friends were mourning. And he had been going to press conferences and dealing with the Ministry. There was no time for him to mourn. What hero needed such anyways?
The few times he had time to see his friends, they had been lost in their own sadness, and Harry could not make himself ask for a hug, or cry besides them. It was like being 10 again and realizing he did not deserve that second bedroom, realizing he did not deserve that meal, and now, realizing he did not deserve being comforted.
When he finally cried, he did so crumbled upon the cold stone floors of Grimmauld Place; blank eyes staring out across the Black Family Tree at where Sirius name had once stood. Burned and black, much like how his own soul felt. Shriveled and all used up.
That had been five years ago. The world had not changed much. The public still called him The Boy Who Lived, even at the age of 22. The questions had evolved to become more personal: Why haven't you funded the rebuilding of this place or that place? Why haven't you married? Why haven't you helped hunt down the rest of the Death Eaters? Why haven't you—!
His life was one big why. Most of all he just asked himself, why hadn't he died?
His eyes were old, yet his skin remained smooth, unblemished; the scar fading more and more as each day passed. He felt very much the same as he had done when he was 17 and that scared him. Why was he unable to settle down? Why was he unable to grow up and be like Hermione and Ron: with a job and a future?
His friends were great, though. Still exactly as he remembered them when he had first met them, and that was great, just not what he needed. They had never been able to see passed his mask. See his loneliness. Heal his fears. Heal his guilt.
Their friendship to him was almost lackadaisical with how easy it was given out, and that made it feel cheap. Made Harry feel cheap. As if he shouldn't ask for more or demand more. And with his low self-esteem he would never be able to receive more. He knew it, yet he shook at the very thought of mentioning it to them. To his best friends who had stood besides him during war. How could he ever tell them, it wasn't enough?
The ever-knowledgeable Hermione was the only one close enough to see into his loneliness after she had stopped mourning. When she had managed to crawl herself out of that pit and truly look at Harry. But Harry knew she would never be able to understand the depth of his lonely well, and he would never demand that she did either. Just her there next to him gave him just enough strength to see the light of each new day.
Sweet, wonderful Hermione had been his stable pillar for the last few years, yet she could only do so much. Eccentric and so willing to learn, Harry could not accept that she should spend so much time looking after him. Wasting away in his dark home.
And maybe because he spent so much time pushing her away, and she did not have the strength to continue to push them together, their time spent together became less and less. If she was truly persistent he would see her twice a week. Two wonderful days he secretly looked forward to while his guilt-ridden self whispered quietly from within that he did not deserve it.
The days without her, he spent pouring over books. Specifically, books he had gone back for from the Chamber of Secrets. The lost books of Salazar Slytherin. Written in parseltongue.
In five years, he had managed to become a reclusive bookworm. Not even his friends could force him out into Diagon Alley again. No matter what they said about the people: how they still worshiped him, appreciated him, loved him. Because Harry would never forget the eyes that had stared at him those weeks following the last great battle. And maybe, he couldn't forgive it either.
Hermione pestered him to translate the books, but not once could he ever bring himself to place quill upon parchment and do so. The knowledge in the books felt personal. Like it called out to him and took him in. Most books were written like a journal, from Salazar to… him? So, he soaked them up; thought little about the fact that Voldemort or Tom Riddle had most likely done the same.
One book mentioned Slytherin's wand. It was not the first time he had done so, after all, Salazar was very proud of his creation. The wand he had woven himself. However, in this book it talked of the place of its creation. A place of lost arts and of ancient forgotten magic. A place where he had redeemed himself, was what Salazar had written, and Harry soaked up the words. The usage and its meaning. The page becoming crumbled under strong, persistent fingers.
For days he thought of it. How he wished to see the place and wished to go. How, maybe, if he found the place, he too, could redeem himself? Could find worth in his existence. Not false roads that led him back to guilt and not false promises said by a silver-tongue. But real, honest worth. He too, could find new meaning.
The thought would not let him go, and before he knew it he unashamedly begged Hermione for help. She was hesitant, as she nowadays was with anything Harry wished to do. The days where she had followed without question were long gone.
"Are you certain, Harry?" she said. Her hand resting against the untranslated book he had handed her. Too filled with excitement to realize she was unable to read it.
"Salazar Slytherin set Voldemort down the path that somehow gave birth to me, The Boy Who Lived," he said.
She looked troubled. "You rarely call yourself that. Harry, this isn't good for you."
"I know what is good for me and what is not!" The force of his voice caused her to flinch, and Harry wilted just as quickly as the passion had come. Wide eyes, almost fearful, looked upon Hermione in hope that she would not leave. Would not dismiss this. He needed this. He needed to find this place. "Please. I can't go on like this, Hermione."
She sighed and pushed the book back to him. "Not everyone expects miracles out of you," was all she said. She gathered her bag up and made for the fireplace.
"Please," he said, voice quiet and eyes burning with desperation as he continued staring down at the page before him.
"Maybe if you traveled some and got out of this place, you would feel better?"
"Finding the place Salazar revered so much would make me feel better."
The soft treading of her shoes let him know she was coming back. Hope pounded away at his heart, and he lifted his head to meet her gaze. She looked older, he noticed. Tired and worn. Did he look the same?
"Your obsession with… Voldemort and with Slytherin, that is what is making the public so nervous about you. If you went on a date or just showed your face more often—" she said. "Harry, you know the people don't hate you. They just worry. Both Dumbledore and Voldemort are gone. The two strongest wizards of England, and now there is only you."
"They think I'll become like Voldemort," Harry said knowingly.
Hermione just shook her head. "They don't know that. That's what they are afraid of. If you just showed them, let them know you're not like that."
"It's not that easy."
"You haven't even tried," Hermione said, her voice low and almost a hiss. Harry looked at her, startled. The moment the words left her mouth she looked guilty, eyes casting away. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll help, Harry. You know I will."
Harry did not know what to think. Part of him was sad she had to act this way with him, another part of him wished she would not act so desperately to please him. "I know."
"Translate the passage. I can't read it. I'll be back in a few days. We'll talk more then," she said. Then she was making her way towards the floo again. This time Harry did not stop her.
—V—V—
When she came back, their search was done in solemn silence. Neither spoke of Harry returning back into society and neither mentioned their previous argument. And as always, Hermione was amazing. It took her less than a month to work out an approximate for the location: what Harry had named Salazar's Home. The way the man spoke of it in his journals, it would seem it contained a vast collection of his most precious work, and it might hold something that would give Harry the quick start he needed to get on with his life.
The location for the "house" seemed to lay outside a small French wizarding community just by the border to Switzerland. It was hidden by Salazar's loyal companion, which Harry took to mean a snake. Being Parselmouth was one of the more famous traits of Salazar Slytherin after all.
He thanked Hermione profusely, almost throwing his arms around her like he had done when he was younger. She accepted the thanks with far more grace than her stuttering and shy younger self would have and added in a light scolding to be careful.
She reminded him of a teacher, a scowling one who did not think a student's prank was particularly funny. "I'll be careful," he said, trying to reassure her and to ease the deep furrow of her brows. "I'll be back before you know it. I've done this before, remember."
"Not alone," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose before nodding sharply. "Watch out for wards, curses, traps, you know the list."
He smiled and laid his hand gently on her upper arm. "Constant vigilance," he replied, mirroring how Mad-Eye Moody had once done it.
"Come back in one piece," she said, and added as an afterthought, "I'll send out a search party for you in two weeks' time."
"You're the best, 'Mione."
—V—V—
"Harry." He shot up, startled; turning to look at who had disturbed him.
"Luna," he whispered, clutching his wand tightly. "Why are you here?"
She smiled sadly and moved further into the room. The fireplace behind her still smoldering slightly from its usage. "The Nargles said you would be leaving."
He sighed at her words. They were still as confusing as they had been back at Hogwarts; her blue eyes were just as piercing. "I wonder what they could possibly have said, or for that matter, how they could possibly have known?"
"Not all things are physical, Harry," she said, voice soft and warm. She stepped close, hand drifting over his sleeve. They stood equal in height, and that for some reason made the moment feel intimate for Harry. "I brought you something: something you might need."
"I'm only going away for a few days. A week max."
"I know not what you seek, but I do know you will find it," she explained, left hand lifting to show him a small decoratively carved knife. "I also know that at some point you will need this. Take it."
He wrinkled his brows and stared down at the small knife, but a few thumbs in length. "A knife. What could I possibly need that for? I do not even know how to use it."
Luna calmly leaned over and placed it in his hand, curling his fingers over the cool handle. He grasped the blade tighter and cradled it towards his chest; head tilting in confusion. "You rarely visit."
"I've taken care of your Gringotts' account for many years now. It's allowed you to remain here, hidden," she began and floated her away over to an armchair which she sank down into. "Sit with me."
"I was just in the middle of packing."
"You are not in a hurry, are you?" she wondered.
Harry shook his head. No, indeed he wasn't, but this felt weird. Somehow almost final, and that made him hesitant to listen to her.
Luna had pulled out his Gringotts' key and was twirling it this way and that, letting it float over her palm. "Where you will go, this won't be of any use to you." He stiffened at those words and decided to shuffle over to an armchair close by. "I took this opportunity to visit some of your vaults: you do have many as the heir to both the Potter and the Black line. I filled a trunk with all the things that I think you will want, or need—"
"Thank you, Luna. But, why?" he asked.
She just shook her head, an agitated look upon her face. Her silvery fine hair coming loose and falling over her eyes and down her shoulders. "All I know is that you will find what you seek, and that you will need the trunk and the knife."
"What else are you not telling me?"
Luna placed a small shrunken trunk on the side table as well as the key. Her eyes unfocused as she looked upon Harry. "This will be farewell, Harry."
He jolted and broke eye contact. Shaken by the certainty in Luna's dreamy voice. She had always been a weird friend, but a trusting one at that, and though her predictions were rather uncanny they always held a certain amount of truth to them.
"I promise you, Luna, whatever happens I will come back," he said, letting his magic, for the first time in a long time, brush against Luna's own. Her body shivered but she did not draw back from the touch, slowly relaxing into it.
"No, Harry," she said, and her eyes became more focused once again. "Don't lock yourself away in this house. Don't force yourself to come back just because of us. The war is over, we're healing. Let yourself heal as well."
There was nothing to be said back at that. Her words unraveled the tight uncertain knot deep within him. He leaned back and felt his eyes prickle. Her words had been what he needed to hear, needed to know to be able to let go. "I understand."
Luna rushed forward out of her chair and threw strong arms around his shoulders. "It'll be okay, Harry. Just take care of yourself, and we'll—we'll take care of ourselves, too."
He grasped tight to Luna for a long moment before they drew apart, eyes more red then normal but neither mentioned anything. She was already moving back towards the floo. Such a short visit, Harry thought.
"Luna," he said, uncertain of what he really wanted. Maybe he wished her to stay longer.
"Keep the knife close, Harry," she said, not turning around to look at him. Then, she was gone. The room feeling emptier than ever.
Harry sunk further into the chair and cradled his head in his hands, staring through fingers at the small trunk on the table; his Gringotts' key right next to it.
The knife he stuffed into his pant pocket and the trunk got placed next to his other one in his robe. The key was left on the table. If he truly was not coming back, then his friends could do with the rest of his vaults as they wished. A farewell present of sorts.
—V—V—
Within a week of Hermione having found the approximate location of the place, Harry was gone. Leaving behind his key and a long drawn out letter. If Luna's predication came true, he had no wish for his friends to worry about him. Whatever happened, he refused to force them to search for him.
He flooed from the British Ministry to the French. No one mentioned anything. People nodded respectfully to him but made no move to come closer. Uncertainty dancing in the air about them. Harry just clenched his teeth and tried to ignore it: the feeling of unwelcomeness.
His first city in France was huge. Far bigger than Diagon Alley. The buildings twisted with magic and shot up into the sky; the shops were much larger, and the population felt overwhelming. Harry disappeared into the masses before he even realized it. Losing his way in winding streets.
By nightfall, he admitted defeat and took in at a small hotel. The receptionist was anything but human. Large owl-like eyes stared at him unblinking while dark nails typed hurriedly across an apparatus that looked much like a typewriter.
"Yes," the female creature said, eyes locked on him while the hands continued in their movement.
"I—Ugh, am looking for a room."
"We have many. What type of room?"
Harry frowned and looked about. "Normal? I just need a place for the night; I'll leave in the morning."
The creature hummed, movements going still. A large bright key materialized on top of the counter and the female broke eye contact to look down upon it. "3 gold and it's yours," she said.
3 Galleons! Harry shouted inside his mind, staring wide eyed at the key. He licked his lips and procured 3 golden coins in his hand. "For how long?"
The female made a harkle like sound and twisted her head unnaturally. "For however long you need it."
Confused but too tired to argue he placed the Galleons down and picked the key up. Squinting, he was just able to make out the number 35 on the bow of the key. He mumbled a thanks, but the female had already returned all her attention to the typing, so he shuffled out of the open area and into a narrow hallway. And like most things magical, when Harry opened the door he stepped into a large well-lit room. Enchanted windows showed open rolling landscape, and there was enough room inside for a small kitchenette and a bathroom. Nothing was fancy, but it was more than he had expected when he had stepped into the hotel for the night.
He unshrunk his two trunks and changed clothes before warding them for the night. Barely a few moments later he was dead asleep on a soft springy mattress.
—V—V—
France was very different from what he was used to. No one stopped him on the streets or greeted him. He was left to his own devices. The hotel had no bar nor breakfast, so Harry had to wander the town early in the morning.
No paperboy yelled out to buy the morning news, and for once, the biggest building in town was not Gringotts and the French language could be heard all around him. All in all, the town reminded him very much of a muggle city, without the cars.
He found a nice-looking café and sat down for breakfast. Taking out his wand he enlarged one of Slytherin's journals and read quietly to himself while he waited.
Then he continued wandering the town, slipping in and out of stores. He studied the witches and wizards who passed him. Fascinated by their normalness. There was no haggard look in their eyes like most folk back at Diagon Alley. No shifty look when they caught sight of him as he passed by.
"This is what peace does to a city," he mumbled to himself, sitting down upon a bench to take the new world in.
When Hermione, Ron and he had been traveling around Europe they had never had the opportunity to stop by any of the wizarding towns of Europe. He regretted that now. Regretted that they never took the time to see themselves around; to experience the world outside of war ridden Britain.
Sitting here, part of him could image never returning just like Luna had said. Here he could try and find a new life, one where people wouldn't mention the war. Where his hero status mattered little. He could become a new person. But first he had to find Slytherin's home.
The receptionist never asked for the key back, so he ended up staying in the city for three days before flooing to the small town by the border of Switzerland. Feeling a little more relaxed and ready for his journey he stepped out of the public floor and into the small town. It was a run-down place, far different from the large city he had first arrived at. The houses were croaked looking and none stood taller than two floors. The streets were covered in a muddy layer and beneath it he could just make out the cobblestoned road.
The towns folk kept their heads down and hurried through the streets. If they looked up and caught sight of him they stopped and stared suspiciously before hurrying on. Harry's skin crawled uncomfortably. The atmosphere was heavy and silence hung thick in the air. When he arrived at an inn his voice was low as he asked for a room, and the man behind the counter looked him up and down with narrow eyes.
"No rooms," he said, hands hidden behind the counter.
Harry glanced down at where they disappeared and swallowed nervously. "Just for one night."
"No rooms," the man growled back.
He backed away some and nodded. "Right, sorry. Is there another inn?"
The man only stared, so Harry shuffled out of the place quickly; pressing his body tight to the wall as he moved along the street. It was a small town and before he knew it he had passed the town limit and was out in thick woods.
He drew his wand and murmured a quick compass spell and watched as the wand twisted and turned in his palm. He had no real destination in mind, just knowledge that the house he was looking for would be found somewhere within these woods.
The air was hot, and his robe stuck to him uncomfortably. His cooling charms could only do so much. Tired he trudged through the thick foliage; batting branches and bushes out of his way. He had no idea where he was heading to. He just walked forward, hoping something would give him a sign, or maybe a snake would slither out from under a bush and he could ask for directions.
The first night out was the worst. All the night sounds were loud to his ears. Every snap of a branch caused him to flinch. He had erected a small tent, warded of course, but even so he worried. There was no friend to watch his back out here, and loneliness crept in as night became darker.
Morning couldn't come soon enough, and he ate a quick breakfast of dried fruits and meat.
The second day was much the same as the first: much stumbling.
The third day began with a cold wind, and he drew his robe tighter to him. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, and soft rumbling could be heard in the distance. His pace had slowed and by this point he had doubled back a few times, just to recheck. His magic flaring out trying to touch upon anything at all that could be magical in nature. He only met with small creatures all which quickly scuttled out of his senses the moment his magic touched upon them.
He had contemplated going back to the village many times, but the memory of their cold looks had him rethink it.
"Hello," he hissed, hoping parseltongue would do it. Any snake would do, he just wished to no be alone any longer. Returning was out of the question, so he had to continue onward. He repeated Luna's words over and over again, if she was to be believed he would find what he was searching for. Don't give up hope, he told himself, hand gripping his wand like a lifeline.
"Hello!" he continued shouting, lifting rocks and staring into holes in the ground. There had to be a snake somewhere.
The one who answered his call was a brown snake. Of what species he did not know.
"The human speaks, why do you call?" it asked from the bushes.
"Wizard," Harry corrected without thinking.
"Wizard, then," it hissed, and Harry got the feeling it was impatient.
"Sorry. I'm lost. Could you help me?" he wondered, crouching down to get a better look at it, curled up as it was.
"That depends on what help you need."
"Of course." Harry nodded. "I seek a house, hidden. Um, it should be—"
"How am I supposed to find a hidden house? I am but a snake," it interrupted, already moving further into the bushes.
"Wait! Please," he begged. "It is guarded by a snake. That's why I was hoping you could help."
The slithering sound stopped and after a moment the dark nose popped back out of the bushes, yellowish eyes inspecting him. "A guarding snake?"
"Yes. I am looking for the house of Salazar Slytherin. It's been mentioned that a snake guards it," he said.
"I know not the name," the snake replied, tongue flicking out to taste the air.
Harry sagged and rubbed at his tired eyes. "I understand. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"Maybe the big one will know," the snake said before Harry could get up and move away.
The words stilled him, and he leaned over the snake uncaring if it would bite him or not. "The big one? A snake? Could you take me to it?"
"So many questions."
"Sorry."
The snake began to uncurl again, slithering out and between Harry's feet. "He is not far. If he eats you, I am not at fault."
Harry laughed and followed. "Sure."
—V—V—
The brown little snake had not been kidding about the size. They came upon it somewhere at its middle; its scales rose up before him like yellowish-green wall.
The little snake hissed, head twisting as it stared up at the sky, tongue flickering in and out. "Storm. I will go hide now," it said, already disappearing into the foliage by Harry's feet.
"Ah! Thank you," he shouted after it; then his eyes returned to the wall before him. He licked his lips, wary of what sort of snake he would be meeting with. The scales were different, so it was unlikely to be a basilisk. But Harry felt it was best to go forth a little slower.
He picked his way along the snake, going against the scales.
"You humans always have such a foul smell."
Harry jumped, wand shooting up before him and a spell just on the tip of his tongue. He saw nothing, the wall remained firm by his side.
Rustling was heard above him and he glanced up nervously. A large head poked out from between the trees, staring down at him. Large yellow slit eyes fixed him in his place; a large tongue flickering out and scenting the air.
"I'm sorry for the smell," he stuttered out.
The large head tilted before lowering closer to the ground. "A speaker," it hissed. "Why have you sought me out?"
He flinched when the head came closer but stayed his ground. "Are you the guarding snake of Salazar Slytherin's house?"
"Salazar Slytherin," the snake began, "is long since gone."
"I know," Harry said. "I was wondering if you know where his house is—I understand that it should be hidden within these woods."
"A house, I know not," the snake answered. "You are not the first to seek it, though."
Harry's heart quickened, and he stared wide eyed up at the head above him. "Not the first. Who else has come seeking it?"
"Many speakers have passed these woods."
"Was one of them Tom Riddle or Voldemort?" he wondered.
The snake hissed loudly and shook its head. "How should I know? You humans look all the same."
Well, that was sad. But Harry guessed he could not really fault the snake for his inability to remember specific humans. After all, most people had no clue as to the different kinds of snakes that existed.
Harry racked his brain for what to say. Should he leave? He had already promised himself not to give up, yet it seemed this trail with the snakes was going cold.
"The last human to pass, did he leave upon meeting you?" he asked.
"He stayed."
"Where?"
The snake's head rose as he looked out over the treetops across the forest before coming back down closer to Harry. "At the bottom of the valley."
He frowned at the snake. A valley? He had no memory of passing one. Sure, the ground had been greatly elevated at some places, but never like a valley.
"Can you show me the way?"
"The valley is sometimes there and sometimes not. Some find it others do not. Villages nearby are the same—best not get close," the great snake said.
Harry nodded in understanding. "A ward," he said, mostly to himself.
"I know not what a ward is."
"It can hide things," Harry explained. The snake just hissed and gave no reply. Head already disappearing back into the trees, leaving Harry alone with only its yellowish green body as companion.
He huffed in frustration and continued walking. How was he supposed to find a warded valley?
He decided to follow the way the snake had looked when its head had risen above the tree line. It was close to the same direction which he was traveling in anyways. Most wizards had a natural knack for seeing through wards once they knew they were there anyways, so with some luck, he should be able to stumble upon the valley.
The rain, however, came upon him quickly and he sought shelter under the branches of a thick tree. He sank down among its roots and looked out over the darkening forest. Everything had gone quiet; only the light dripping of raindrops could be heard.
The large snake was gone out of his sight by now and he wondered where it would take shelter. How did such a large creature hide from muggles he wondered.
If there was one thing Harry was bad at it was meditating, yet here under the thick branches of the forest with only the sound of falling rain, it was so easy to fall into a trance. His magic hummed, strong and vibrant within him. Mind for once falling quiet.
The feeling of the foreign magic that touched upon him was faint. Something he would have never been able to pick out normally. But right now, it vibrated against his own, and he knew—knew that it had to be the wards of Salazar Slytherin.
He welcomed the magic into himself and followed it out. Felt along it and could see in his mind's eye how the valley opened up before him. And there, at the bottom of it carved against a rocky wall was the Slytherin insignia.
/Tsubasa